


No Man Left Behind

by NamelesslyNightlock



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, BAMF Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Battle, Battle Couple, Blood, Bows & Arrows, Canon-Typical Violence, Crusades Era Joe | Yusuf al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Feels, Feral Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Happy Ending, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Injury, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Protective Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Protective Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Strangers to Friends, Swordfighting, Swords, Talking, Trust, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:14:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26861242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NamelesslyNightlock/pseuds/NamelesslyNightlock
Summary: They were almost upon him, their pale faces splattered with the blood of sleeping men, their eyes gleaming with the lust of battle—“Yusuf!”Instinctively, Yusuf turned, and his eyes widened as he saw Nicolò di Genova charging back toward him with a violent cry.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 40
Kudos: 428





	No Man Left Behind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Karaii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karaii/gifts).



> So I saw [this absolutely amazing art by ahkaraii](https://ahkaraii.tumblr.com/post/631257906744098816/hi-just-dropping-by-to-say-that-i-love-your-art), and I had to, I just had to  
>   
> Thank you **Rabentochter** for once again reading this over, helping with the tags, and being an all round legend for indulging my terrible habit of writing at ~~increasingly~~ worrying hours of the night

The first arrow hit Yusuf in the ankle.

He couldn’t help the cry of pain as the sharp point pierced his skin, cutting through the flesh and hitting bone. His knee slammed against the ground half a moment later, his leg no longer able to hold his weight—

And before he could reach back to pull the fucking thing out – he knew it would hurt, but he also knew it would _heal_ – another arrow slammed into the back of his shoulder.

Yusuf groaned again, and grit his teeth. They had been running—and now that he was on the ground, he knew he was a sitting duck. Looking up, he could see that Nicolò had already vanished—

_Fine. Good._

He forced the sting of abandonment away, not having time for it. Nicolò hadn’t seemed to want to be in Ascalon, anyway—he hadn’t seemed to want to be with Yusuf at all. He’d always been so quiet, so stoic, as if he’d rather be anywhere else. And if he’d taken his chance to leave Yusuf behind, then Yusuf was better off without him.

He pressed the hand not clutching his sword into the ground, trying to force himself up. Another arrow painfully pierced his back—and the crusaders were close enough now that he could hear the pounding of their boots against the ground. There seemed to be a small group, at least three, maybe five. All things considered, Yusuf should count himself _lucky._ He’d seen the size of some of the groups of Franks fighting their way through the ambushed Fatimid army.

They were shouting at him in languages he didn’t know, but Yusuf – even down on his knees as he was, impaled by so many arrows that his flesh felt like it was being torn apart – lifted his blade and prepared to fight.

He might be able to recover from any wound these men could give him, might be able to rise from every death—but by Allah, he would go down swinging every time.

They were almost upon him, their pale faces splattered with the blood of sleeping men, their eyes gleaming with the lust of battle—

_“Yusuf!”_

Instinctively, Yusuf turned, and his eyes widened as he saw Nicolò di Genova charging back toward him with a violent cry. He had both hands curled around his sword, blade raised high and ready to swing, his expression twisted into a snarl of such fury that Yusuf was surprised the crusaders didn’t fall in fright.

Yusuf threw himself to the ground as blades clashed right above him, cursing as he felt something _snap._ Blood splashed over his armour and face as Nicolò’s blade sliced cleanly across the throat of one of Yusuf’s would-be attackers—and then Nicolò stepped over Yusuf as he pushed the remaining two back, his blade clashing with theirs again and _again_ as he fought them both alone.

Now that he was clear of the fight, Yusuf tried to push himself upright again, shoving his sword into the ground to use as a brace. Every movement tore a gasp of pain from his lungs, every shift of muscle an indescribable torture—but he made his way back to his knees.

Thankfully, the snap he had felt before appeared to be one of the arrows, not one of his bones—though to be honest, a bone would have been almost preferable. A bone would have _healed_ , whereas the broken arrow dug further into his flesh at a more painful angle.

But there was no time to worry about such things. As best as he could, he pushed his own pain from his mind and turned back to the fight at hand—

Just in time to see Nicolò pull his sword from the gut of one of the crusaders.

The last one was backing away, his eyes wide and gleaming with a fear that spoke of monsters and darkness.

The moment the man turned and fled, Nicolò moved back to Yusuf, shifted his sword into his left hand, and then reached down to wrap his right around Yusuf’s waist. 

“Yusuf, _up_ ,” Nicolò said harshly, speaking in Arabic so accented that Yusuf almost couldn’t understand the word.

Yusuf grit his teeth and forced his legs to cooperate, throwing his left arm around Nicolò’s shoulders and holding onto him as tightly as he could, using him as an anchor. They both heaved at the same time, and Yusuf’s feet _finally_ slipped back underneath him—

And Yusuf didn’t think he’d ever felt _anything_ quite so painful as the white _agony_ that poured across every inch of his body, threatening to bring him back down. 

He gripped Nicolò tighter, almost on instinct as his vision began to tilt sideways, as his breathing turned too quick and his stomach rolled.

Of course, it _shouldn’t_ have been instinct—he should not have considered this man a safe harbour. But given the circumstances, given the shared situation that they had managed to both fall into, Nicolò di Genova was perhaps the only person in the world that Yusuf could count on.

After all, it had been some time since the _first_ time they’d sighted each other on a battlefield.

They’d killed each other in Antioch, over and over. They’d caught sight of each other at Arqa, then again in Jerusalem, charging across the field with snarls of rage and curses of pure hate. They’d fought until they could barely lift their swords, until their armour was nought but rags, until they were crawling across ground soaked with their own blood in order to kill each other again and again. They’d fought, they’d _fought_ until they could fight no more—

Until Yusuf, tired, exhausted, and sick of all the violence, had held out a hand of peace. 

The peace had sustained them through weeks of survival in the desert, through attempting to learn each other’s language and everything they could about their inability to die. It had sustained them right until they had decided to get out of the East by heading for the closest port. 

They had arrived in Ascalon to find a Fatimid army camped outside the walls. The sun had already set, the gates were already locked, so they had made a camp of their own—

And had awoken to the sounds of screams as attacking crusaders had fallen upon the sleeping army like vultures upon a corpse. 

“ _Yusuf?”_

Yusuf blinked and shook his head with a groan, realising that the pain had been enough to draw him into darkness for a moment. 

“I’m here,” he said, and almost flinched at the harshness of his own voice. “Are—”

“More coming. We need to move.” Nicolò had switched to Occitan, which sounded better than the Arabic, at least. 

Yusuf once again felt his body _scream_ as Nicolò took a step, and tasted blood on his tongue as he bit down too hard. But he knew Nicolò was right, he knew they needed to _move_ —

But before they could take a second step, there was a shift in the air around them, and then from the shadowed darkness stepped half a dozen armed and angry crusaders.

Yusuf felt Nicolò tense—

And then, Nicolò raised his sword, his arm tightening around Yusuf’s waist.

But—

“There are too many,” Yusuf whispered. It was clear that the man from before had given his comrades their exact location. “Nicolò,” he said again after receiving no response. “There are _too many.”_

“Yes.” Nicolò didn’t seem to care, though—he followed up his answer by shouting something at the crusaders in quick Genoese, faster than Yusuf could follow. They shouted something back, this time in another language, which Nicolò again responded to with fire in his voice.

And again, Yusuf didn’t understand a word—but he wasn’t yet out of it enough to not be able to guess what was going on. They were likely asking for Nicolò’s surrender, but… even as a Christian, Yusuf knew that if he surrendered to these men, Nicolò would not be spared.

Yusuf had been in Antioch to the end. He’d seen what crusaders did to the men they defeated—

And indeed, as he and Nicolò had fled the attack, he’d already seen some of the surrendering Fatimids slaughtered where they knelt.

To them, running truly had seemed like the only option—

And perhaps it still _was_ an option. For one of them.

“You should run,” Yusuf said, speaking under his breath. “Nicolò, leave me here. I will hold them off, you get away—”

“No,” Nicolò snarled. 

Yusuf frowned, wondering if Nicolò had understood what he’d said. “But—”

“I will not leave you here,” Nicolò said again, his Occitan clear and crisp in his apparent anger. “I will _not.”_

Yusuf was ready to argue once more, because while they might not _die,_ they could certainly still hurt – the fact that Yusuf _still_ could not support his own body weight was enough to evidence that – and there was surely no way that Nicolò could stand against half a dozen men alone. But one look at Nicolò’s expression told Yusuf all that he needed to know.

So, steeling himself, Yusuf turned back to their attackers with the best snarl he could muster—

Then the crusaders charged—

And Nicolò _fought._

Yusuf helped as best he could, raising his sword with his heavy, aching arm to defend Nicolò’s open side. But his wounds were hurting enough to blind. His body was attempting to heal by pushing the arrows out, but it only served to dig the arrowheads in deeper. They were _designed_ to make a bigger wound when they were pulled out, after all.

Nicolò cried out as a sword sliced his side, and another glanced off his arm—but he kept on fighting, the sound of metal on metal ringing in Yusuf’s ears.

Yusuf had been right.

There were _too many,_ and Nicolò—

Nicolò was restricting himself, Yusuf realised with horror. He was fighting with only his _left hand._

The moment the thought entered his head, Yusuf immediately pushed Nicolò away from him—

Nicolò wasn’t expecting it, and he swore as Yusuf fell to the ground once more. But Nicolò couldn’t react, for too many swords were coming at him at once. He was no longer able to attack, barely able to defend, his body catching almost as many blows as his blade. It was clear that Nicolò was being forced to stop only what would kill, leaving everything else for his body to heal—and Yusuf knew that no one, not even Nicolò, could stand that for long.

So, gritting his teeth against the dread in his gut, Yusuf let his sword fall, uncaring that one of the crusaders had peeled from Nicolò to head for an easier target. Then he reached down his leg, curled his fingers around the shaft buried deep in his ankle, and he _pulled._

Yusuf cried out in pain, but there was no _time—_

In one swift movement he thrust upward with the arrow, trying not to think about the clump of flesh he saw on the end, and buried it in the unsuspecting man’s throat. The crusader fell to the side—and Yusuf reached for his sword, once again using it as a brace to push himself upright. His other hand groped behind him, and he snarled and swore as he tore the arrows from his back before tossing them away.

By the time he was standing tall, the ache in his ankle was reduced to a throb—so he put his foot forward with bared teeth and a ready blade.

Nicolò had managed to kill one of the men at the start, and Yusuf had got another—which left four crusaders surrounding Nicolò, attempting to bury him in slashes of their swords.

Yusuf caught one of them from behind before the man even knew he was there, slicing his sword along the back of his legs before stepping forward and slamming it into his throat.

The cut spewed bright crimson, but Yusuf did not even see—for his eyes were on the exhausted but determined man in the centre of the fight.

Nicolò looked like a mess. Every inch of him was bloodied, his hair sticking against the skin of his forehead. The moonlight caused his eyes to gleam bright blue amongst the red, and Yusuf saw the desperation in them—as well as the way they hardened when Nicolò caught sight of Yusuf.

There was no need for words.

Yusuf took his place at Nicolò’s side—

And then they faced the remaining three crusaders together.

It was the first time that they had ever fought as such, and yet it felt like the most natural thing in the world. They’d fought and killed the other enough times to have an intimate knowledge of their movements, the shape of every attacking arc, the speed of every parry. Yusuf knew the path of Nicolò’s sword as well as he knew his own, easily able to avoid Nicolò’s strikes and fill any spaces that opened. 

They turned slightly to cover each other’s backs, taking turns to defend while the other stuck hard and fast. And against a dual force of desperate men who could not suffer a wound they could not heal—

The crusaders did not stand a chance. 

The first fell to Nicolò’s blade, the sword sliding beneath his ribs while Yusuf parried a blow that would have otherwise taken off Nicolò’s head. Nicolò pulled his sword free with a sharp tug, and in the same movement spun to catch the sword which had been headed for Yusuf’s thigh. Yusuf spun around him, slashed at the arm of another, causing the bone to _snap._

The man screamed—then gurgled as Nicolò’s sword found a home right through his open mouth. 

The final crusader hissed upon finding himself outnumbered, and Yusuf adjusted his grip on his sword, feeling a feral grin stretch over his lips. In theory, he and Nicolò could have surrounded the man, come at him from both sides—but by an unspoken agreement, they remained at each other’s sides and advanced as one. 

The man raised his weapon, but he stumbled back—and it was only with that movement that Yusuf recognised him as the same man from before. 

“No running this time,” he muttered, and he raised his sword for a sharp swing—

The crusader parried, and his heavier blade pushed Yusuf’s to the side. Emboldened, the man tried again, lips twisting under his beard as he lifted his blade in a high arc and made to bring it down upon Yusuf. There was no way Yusuf would be able to stop it in time—

But there was no need for him to do so. Nicolò blocked the blow, then twisted so Yusuf could duck under his arm and swing up with his own blade—

And the crusader fell to the ground, dead. 

Nicolò’s breathing was heavy enough to hear, and he swayed on the spot as Yusuf turned to look at him.

Immediately, Yusuf switched his sword to his other hand and wrapped an arm around Nicolò’s waist—and then they both leaned against each other.

“Come on,” Yusuf said. “We need to go.”

They held each other up as they fled once again, their boots tracking blood over the ground. The sounds of war still filled the air, screams, prayers, begs, cries. They heard the clash of swords and the pounding of hooves, the twang of arrows whistling through the dark.

Every shaft that hit the ground at his feet caused Yusuf to flinch, but Nicolò’s arm remained tight and grounding. They forced their way to the edge of the fight, not entirely knowing where they were going, just—

Trying to get away from the walls, from the death, from the _horror._

They came across another pair of knights, crossbows aimed at three kneeling Fatimid cavalrymen who were holding their hands high. Nicolò and Yusuf ran at them from behind and slit the crusaders’ throats, the crossbows falling harmlessly to the ground.

“We’ll be taking one of your horses,” Yusuf told the cavalrymen.

He received no argument.

Yusuf climbed up first, and Nicolò sat behind him, one arm gripping around his waist—

Then Yusuf urged the horse into a full gallop, charging as fast as he could manage into the darkness of the night.

A few crusaders still tried to stop them—but Yusuf directed the horse with a sound hand, charging over one and allowing Nicolò to catch the rest with a swing of his sword—

And then they were free, storming away from the carnage at Ascalon with all the speed they could muster.

Yusuf turned them toward Jaffa, riding until the horse could barely keep a trot. They released it along the road and then turned west to the sea, hoping that the beach would be a safer path to travel than the road itself.

And it was only after they had both thrown themselves into the edge of the sea, only after they had dragged their slightly less bloodied bodies back up onto the sand and were lying side by side that Yusuf found his voice once again.

“Nicolò.”

There was the sound of armour shifting over sand as Nicolò turned his head to look at him. “Yes?” He sounded as exhausted as Yusuf felt.

Yusuf swallowed past the dryness in his throat. “I just wanted to thank you,” he said. “For coming back.”

_I didn’t think you would._

The words remained unspoken, but Yusuf somehow thought that Nicolò might have been able to sense them anyway.

The other man considered Yusuf for a moment, the shadow of his face revealing nothing. When he spoke, his voice was a little deeper than usual.

“I will not leave you behind,” he said. “Not now. Not… after…”

As Nicolò trailed off, Yusuf allowed himself to smile, sure that Nicolò wouldn’t be able to see it in the dark regardless.

“I know,” he said.

“And _you_ did not leave _me_ behind,” Nicolò added. “You had the chance.”

Yusuf’s eyes widened slightly. The thought hadn’t so much as crossed his mind at the time, though looking back… Nicolò was right. After he had pulled out the arrows, Yusuf easily could have left him.

But he hadn’t.

“I didn’t _want_ to leave you,” Yusuf replied. “Not after you came back for me. Not after… everything.”

Nicolò nodded. “Everything,” he echoed, as if he were testing out the word—though, somehow, Yusuf was sure he had known that one already. “Then, from now on… perhaps, we can continue to travel as one? On friendly terms?”

The question was almost hesitant, and Yusuf found himself… wondering.

Yusuf had always thought Nicolò seemed reluctant to travel with him, but, perhaps… it wasn’t reluctance at all.

After all, Yusuf realised, Nicolò hadn’t been the only one to remain mostly cold and quiet since they had left Jerusalem.

Perhaps it was time to take a chance.

“I think I’d like that,” he allowed. “I guess we’ve proven that we make a good team.” 

Nicolò let out a laugh at that, and the newness of the soft sound solidified Yusuf’s decision.

“We’ll stay together,” he finished. “For real.”

Nicolò shifted again—and it was only when Yusuf felt a hand clasp his that he realised what Nicolò was doing.

He turned his own head, and in the light of the moon he could just about work out Nicolò’s smile.

“I like that, too,” Nicolò agreed. “Together.”


End file.
